Someone to Look Up to
by Lavinia Lavender
Summary: A one-shot from the perspective of first-year Blaise Zabini. Originally titled A Slytherin's Point of View. Discarded from being title, it suitably belongs in the summary.


**Disclaimer:** Yeah, everything in this belongs to Ms. Rowling, except I arranged the words. Minor points go to the brilliant Liz Barr for the ideas of the Bloody Baron only talking to the Slytherins and that the House respects Tom Riddle.

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**Someone to Look Up To**

I'm Blaise Zabini, and I'm a Slytherin. I haven't always been a Slytherin. Before I went to Hogwarts I was just a normal, average witch. When I met other children my age, they didn't look at me funny and keep a slight distance, as though I had something catching. My parents had both been Ravenclaws. They didn't care so much. But when I went home for the holidays, and polite visitors inquired what house I had been sorted into, I got strange looks, almost as though I was _dirty_, when I answered. I tested it once, telling a lady I was in Ravenclaw. She smiled at once, saying I must be such a clever girl. I don't understand it. I didn't ask the Sorting Hat to put me in Slytherin.

In the first weeks of school, I learned quickly not to try to make friends with girls in other houses. They're more obvious about it than people at home – "slimy, sneaky Slytherin."

But it's all right. I'm friends with other girls in my house, and now it's the last day of school, the Leaving Feast, and I'm excited because we won the House Cup. Whatever the other houses might say, it's _our_ colors that are all over the Great Hall in the end, not theirs.

Ooh, Harry Potter just walked in. He's been in the hospital wing for the past few days. No one knows why, but I heard Terence Higgs saying he fought some kind of duel in a secret chamber. Of course I haven't talked to Harry Potter at all this year, even though we have classes together. He looks pretty ordinary to me, actually.

Now Dumbledore's standing up. I'm grinning because here comes the announcement, _Slytherin wins the House Cup._ And yes – he's announcing the points, and we're in first place, ha!

_However, recent events must be taken into account. Ahem, I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes..._

_First – to Mr. Ronald Weasley, for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor fifty points._

Well, that's nice of Dumbledore, helping even things out for the Gryffindors so they won't feel as bad. Dumbledore really is nice, always so thoughtful like that. I like him.

_Second – to Miss Hermione Granger...for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points._

Wait. I'm adding in my head, and now Gryffindor's ahead of Hufflepuff...

_Third – to Mr. Harry Potter...for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points._

The Gryffindors are screaming, and I don't have time to figure out how many points they have now because Adrian Pucey's slamming his fist down on the table, swearing at Dumbledore and hissing to us, "He tied them with us!"

No, Adrian must have added wrong – but it's true, I'm realizing. We are now tied for the Cup. But that's wrong, we won it – Dumbledore's starting to talk again –

_There are all kinds of courage –_

No. I'm staring at him, and I'm shaking and I can't help – he wouldn't, he can't do this, he's so famous for being good –

_It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award –_

– he _wouldn't_, he couldn't be so cruel, he can't do this to us –

_– ten points to Gryffindor._

Everyone in Gryffindor is screaming, on their feet, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff cheering too. Nearly all of the staff are grinning, exchanging delighted looks. Only we Slytherins sit, silent.

I have to look down now at the table, because I think I'm about to cry for the first time in a while. But I'm not going to cry, because that's the rule above all others, Slytherins don't cry. But I don't think I can help it – it's not _fair,_ why does everyone have to hate us so much – tears are slipping down my face and falling into my lap. I push my hair forward to hide it, hoping no one will notice.

A fourth-year beside me is swearing ceaselessly against Dumbledore, hardly stopping to draw breath. I look up slightly, through my hair, to see the faces of my other housemates. The younger ones look stunned, the middle ones angry, but the oldest, the sixth and seventh years, look unsurprised, even amused, in a bitter way.

"Zabini, are you _crying_?"

"No!" I lash out vehemently, swiping my sleeve over my face.

Before we could say anything else, a nearby sixth year whom I hardly know says, "Leave her alone, Flint. She won't cry next year."

I look up to see that Dumbledore has changed our Slytherin banners to Gryffindors'. I look away.

It's okay, really. I'm learning a lesson today, and somehow it feels more valuable than any other this year. Slytherins, we depend on ourselves. We can't count on anyone else, not any of the teachers, and the great Dumbledore, so wonderful and shining, doesn't extend his light to us. That's okay too. We don't need him, we have ourselves. That's where we can get support. We don't even need to ask anyone else.

It's night now. I'm sitting in the common room with nearly everyone else – no one seems to want to leave to go to bed. There's not much talking, mostly people are quiet.

The Bloody Baron's here too. I know most of the school thinks he never talks, but he does. Only here in the Slytherin quarters, to us, and very rarely. I watch him as he floats around the room. If he wasn't at the feast, I'm sure he heard from someone what happened. He's stopped in the center of the room, gazing around, and the few people who were talking have fallen silent. I think he's about to talk.

"Have any of you heard," he says slowly, "of the Head Boy who was a Slytherin?"

I can practically feel everyone's interest being caught. People are glancing at each other, looking to see if anyone did know. One girl lying on her stomach, idly turning the pages of a book, snorts. "And the school didn't collapse out of shock?"

The Bloody Baron makes no remark on this. "He was top of his year throughout his years as well. Very clever. Some even said a mind to rival Dumbledore's."

Now even the girl with the book has looked up at the ghost above with rapt attention. All eyes are on him.

"His name was Tom Riddle..."

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Author's notes: **This came to me late one night as I sat up, beheading split ends. I wrote and polished it in two hours, non-stop, and then did some editing . Blaise is a girl because although I love two stories where they're a boy and a girl respectively (Dahlia's _Subsentio_ boy, and Cassandra Claire's girl), when it comes down to it I like writing from a girl's perspective. And of course, yes, this was written pre-HBP.

However, I am obliged to admit there is a loophole in the theme of this story – that is, the prejudice against Slytherin. Anyone who catches it and points it out in a review will receive both grudging points and a smack. But do review.

**Update:** Well, it's been over a year since this - my best fanfic to date, by far - was published. And no one has yet guessed the loophole, though I've told a couple friends. Here it is, though, for the public: it's stated in the first book that Slytherin had won the House Cup six or seven years in a row before Harry came. Why are the oldest years in Slytherin unsurprised, "even amused," at losing and breaking this long streak? It can't be _that_ prejudiced, if they won that many years in a row.


End file.
